


in time, we seek amends

by Anonymous



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Angst, Ascians (Final Fantasy XIV), Being Lahabrea is suffering, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Hate Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Lahabrea lives, Other, POV Second Person, all aboard the pain train
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:27:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22454176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Lahabrea and the Warrior of Light clash once more. Then, the Warrior makes an unexpected proposal.
Relationships: Lahabrea (Final Fantasy XIV)/Reader, Lahabrea/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 42
Collections: Anonymous





	in time, we seek amends

"Bringer of Light. I will _bring_ you low."

The Speaker is surprisingly stingy with his words. He talks more with the strength of his spells, of his spite, of his _hatred_ , while you maneuver around every burst of his magicks, each deadlier than the last, inching closer to him at great cost to your stamina.

It's when he drops his arms to his sides in a powerful arc, sending fire and darkness that nearly sing your hair, that you seize the chance to tackle him to the ground, blocking his limbs and straddling his hips to prevent his escape.

He seethes. You refuse to move.

Finally, he tilts his chin up, baring his throat in a universal gesture of surrender. "You killed me once. You can do it twice."

"No," is your reply.

The hint of pale gold eyes stares at you from beneath his mask. "Why?" He asks, his voice carrying a hint of uncertainty for the first time since you'd known him.

You exhale, searching for the right words. There are too many to choose from, and too little time. "I killed you once," you echo, "I would not repeat the same mistake." You lick your suddenly dry lips. "Not after what Eme- no, _Hades_ told me of Amaurot."

He balls his hands into fists. "You have _no right_ to use that name!" The bitterness, the hatred, are back in his voice, in the way he nearly shouts his words of spite.

You nod, keeping eye contact with him. "All the more reason to make it up to you," you state simply.

Confusion flits across the visible parts of his face. Then, when your grip on him slackens, he shoves you away and straddles you, in a reversal of your previous positions.

You let him. Were you in any true danger, you would have been dead already. Lahabrea is still a powerful mage, after all, and he would never miss a point blank spell, even in a fit of rage.

He is surprisingly collected when next he speaks. "Very well. I shall endeavour to take you up on your offer."

A portal opens, devouring you both.

  
  


Lahabrea is merciless.

It is deserved, you suppose, his grip on your hair the only other point of contact you share beyond the lewd slap of skin against skin.

He takes you while you allow yourself to feel whatever pleasure comes from his relentless pounding, his use of your slickened entrance a way to let his anger, his hatred, fill you.

You are aware yours is a paltry offer compared to the loss of a world, but what else can you give to an immortal who despises your very existence, other than yourself for him to debase as he sees fit?

Your body, your very _being_ , are his to use, to cover with himself, draped across your back with his black adorned robes biting into your bare skin and his grunts clawing into your arousal.

His aether, his _soul_ , presses and presses harder into yours, a heavy, purple-and-black shroud blocking any other sensory stimuli out.

As you begin to feel the warmth in your core pick up, the Echo gifts you unwanted visions.

  
  


_"The Zodiark concept is the only way to save the star."  
"But-! Sacrificing lives for _that _! Are you aware of the madness you're suggesting, Lahabrea?!"  
"I know, but what else can be done?" His despair is carefully tucked under a veneer of professionalism.  
You rip your mask from your face. Lahabrea flinches—whether it's from the anger on your features, or the desecrating gesture, you don't care. It's too late to care. "You aren't trying hard _enough!"  
_You storm off, leaving the Speaker at a loss for words. You never see the way he pulls his mask and cowl away and covers his soot-stricken face with his hands, his façade finally crumbling like the buildings around him._

  
  


_When Zodiark comes to life, Lahabrea doesn't feel as happy as he should. The cost of the summoning weighs heavily on him, and he knows without a doubt that he will never be able to forgive himself, not in a thousand thousand years.  
Then, Zodiark shrouds his consciousness, His tempering a soothing melody drowning out your shouted accusations._

  
  


_The emptiness of the Void mocks him, his failure—and Igeyorhm's, but mostly_ his— _a permanent scar on his flawless God.  
He resolves to work harder, faster, to bring about the next Ardor, to fix his God and the star.  
To find you and bring you back into Zodiark’s embrace._

  
  


When Lahabrea pulls back, body and soul, an indecipherable twist on his lips, you feel the loss of him keenly.

You aren’t aware of the tears running down your face until he brings a clawed glove to your cheek, a drop or water glinting on the metal adornment.

“You saw.” He doesn’t ask _what_. You and him both know.

You pull him into your arms, feeling neither resistance nor compliance from him. He simply stands there, arms slack at his sides, crimson mask hiding his emotions from you.

You make no move to remove it.

Minutes, hours, _years_ pass before he reacts, his own arms hanging around you, heavily first, then tighter and tighter, the fangs of his mask brushing against your ear and shoulder as he leans into you, and you into him.

“Why?” He asks again, small, anger and spite drained from his very being at last. “I hurt you. I hurt your friends. _I used you_. I deserve to be hated.” He sounds unfathomably old and tired.

Again, you take your time to search for words, heedless of the chill seeping into your bare skin. “I hated you,” you admit. “You have done many terrible things. But…” You peer at him, at the emotionless mask that has concealed his inner turmoil for aeons. “I now know that you never meant for all this to happen. You are as much of a victim as the ones that died by your hand.”

He makes a sound that’s half a wail and half a sob. His hands leave you, only to rise to slowly pull his cowl back, revealing cascades of blonde hair you don’t remember seeing in his memories.

After some hesitation, he removes his mask, too, setting it aside with unexpected gravity. His youthful face, now fully on you, only shows tired acceptance, aeons of regrets etched in every harsh bone pulling the skin taut.

“I never meant to hurt, yet I did. Every death, _every failure_ , is on me.”

He dissolves a glove. His hand on your face is surprisingly warm. He strokes a thumb across your cheekbone. “ _Zodiark’s_ failure is on me.”

You nod. “It is.” You bring your own hand on his cheek, mirroring his gesture. “Yet it’s not too late to make amends.”

“How?” He does not believe you.

You smile. You tell him. He nods. He gives you your clothes back.

Then, a portal opens.


End file.
